Page 15 of Hearts on Ice
“Generosity is the goal.” I rubbed my palms over my thighs, sudden nerves for no good reason.
“Sit. We’ll talk while we eat.”
He pulled out another plate like he’d been expecting company and ladled pasta without skimping. I took the chair across from him, steam rising between us. The first bite hit warm and solid—simple, tomato and garlic done right.
“I didn’t say it then,” I said, “but I appreciated you letting me have a say in review.”
“I needed your voice in the room.” He twirled pasta, watching me over the curve of his fork. “Not because you’re a goalie. Because they listen when you speak.”
I stared down at the spirals on my plate; they were suddenly fascinating. “I didn’t realize that.”
“Now you do.” His delivery was plain, but the words landed clean, no wobble, the way only he could say them.
We ate for a while, the scrape of forks filling the quiet. My thoughts kept circling, restless, until I leaned back and found the thread I’d been chewing on since the weekend.
“You said something at the clinic.” I kept my tone easy. “About not thinking you’re good with kids.”
His fork stilled mid-air. Then he set it down carefully, buying himself a second.
“Yeah,” he said.
“You were,” I said. My chest felt too tight, but the words pressed out anyway. “In case no one told you.”
His jaw eased, fraction by fraction. His eyes stayed on his plate, though. “You told me.”
“Guess I did.”
A beat stretched, longer than it needed to. I should’ve let it drop, but the thought had been gnawing at me. “I’ve seen you at those clinics before. You always keep your distance.”
That got his eyes up. A flicker of something passed through—hesitation, memory, maybe both.
He twirled his fork once more, then set it down, eyes on the plate. “It doesn’t mean it was easy.”
For a second I forgot to breathe. Mack wasn’t a man who offered vulnerability lightly. Not in a rink, not in front of a team, not even here across the table. The words weren’t dramatic, but they cost him something. I felt it.
“No,” I said, my voice low. “It never is. But the way you showed up for them—it mattered. Even if it didn’t feel easy.”
His gaze lifted, brief, and landed on me like the weight of a puck hitting the blade: solid, intentional. He didn’t add anything, and he didn’t have to.
For a moment, it felt like we were standing in the echo of something neither of us wanted to name. He broke it by reaching for his glass, water catching the light.
“You’ll be back out there with them next time,” he said, voice returning to steady ground. “They need players like you.”
“And coaches like you,” I shot back before I thought better of it.
This time he didn’t correct me. Just gave the smallest nod, as if to acknowledge the words without holding onto them.
Another pocket of quiet. Comfortable this time. I let it stretch, took in the domestic pieces I’d never seen—dish towel folded just so, magnets on the fridge holding a few schedules and a plain sticky note with his handwriting: Wed — cook. My chest tightened for reasons I didn’t examine.
“Why tonight?” he asked suddenly, setting his fork down. “Why show up?”
I thought about lying. I didn’t. “Two reasons. One, you looked like you could use company. And because I did too.”
His mouth tightened, not quite disapproval, or relief. But he didn’t look away.
“And two?”
“You’ve been my coach for five years,” I said, forcing myself to meet his eyes. “And somehow I don’t really know you. I figured maybe it’s time I started fixing that.”
